Jason Frost - The Warlord

Eddie moved to the left again, bouncing on his toes, feigning to the left, then lashing out with a right cross at Cruz's jaw. Cruz spun his huge bulk to the side with incredible grace and ease. Again, Eddie missed.

"You see, men," Cruz explained to the recruits, "fighting isn't just doing damage to the other guy. It's also avoiding having damage done to you. In other words, don't get hit."

Eddie drew in a deep breath. The hippo sergeant was making a fool out of him. Dodging his punches so easily. Shit, they'll never take him seriously as a contender if every elephant that comes along can slip his punches like this. Eddie brought his left and right up to his face for the classic no-nonsense fighter's stance. He was bouncing less as he moved in toward Cruz, who took no step in any direction. Just waited.

The first punch was a left jab, grazing Cruz's ear. The second was an immediate left hook that mussed Cruz's hair, but otherwise missed. The third was a right uppercut that slashed through nothing but air.

Cruz had not moved his feet, yet every punch had missed. Eddie Hooks backed up and stared for a moment, frustration welling up inside of him like sour bile. He was afraid he would cry, and blinked back the tears.

"You see," Cruz continued talking, his voice taunting, contemptuous, "fighting is a hell of a lot more than just your throwing punches. It involves timing, for one. And brains, for another." His grin widened at Hooks. "Try it again. Hooks. And stop holding back on me."

Hooks felt his skin burning, with embarrassment, with hate. He had to teach this cracker asshole a lesson if it was the last thing he ever did.

He brought his hands up again, moved toward Cruz. No bouncing now. His hands flew in frenzied blurs. A double left jab, a right to the stomach, a wild left hook, All misses. When he straightened up, Cruz was standing behind him. Laughing.

"Shit, son, I thought you had something. Guess I was wrong. Just another dumb nigger."

Eddie spun with a growl, coiled his arms again. He was used to fighting from a distance, flicking out the jab and running. Wearing his opponent down before stepping in close to finish him off. But this fucking ape was using some kind of Kung Fu shit that Eddie couldn't figure out. He'd have to get in close with this guy to wipe that grin off his fat face.

Eddie tucked his chin down, moved cautiously closer to Cruz. Cruz stood still, let him come, his hands hanging lazily at his side. Eddie circled to the right, then suddenly shifted to the left, lunging forward with a looping left hook.

What happened next no one who was there ever forgot.

Cruz saw the punch coming and leaned backward out of its path. For a moment Eddie's arm seemed to be suspended in midair, with nowhere to go. That's when Cruz's powerful arms grabbed it out of the air like a swooping hawk and jerked it around, spinning Eddie off balance. With an easy movement, Cruz trapped Eddie's elbow between his own hands, yanked. Eddie screamed in pain as his arm popped out of his shoulder socket.

"My arm! You busted my fucking arm!"

Cruz glanced calmly at the recruits. "So you see, men, how important it is not to get too close to your opponent unless you are adequately prepared."

"You son of a bitch," Eddie hissed through clenched teeth, holding his limp and twisted arm. "It's busted."

Cruz ignored him, continuing his lecture. "It is also important to remember that hand-to-hand combat is not to be taken literally. That is, it don't mean just using hands. For example…" He pointed at Eddie who was hunched over, grasping his useless arm, thinking about his career. "The elbow is even harder than a fist." Cruz hovered over Eddie a moment, then brought his elbow crashing down in the middle of Eddie's back. Eddie's legs buckled and he sprawled forward, his injured arm slamming into the hard wooden floor.

"Jeeesus! Goddamn!" His face was contorted with pain.

"Then there's the foot," Cruz said, kicking Eddie's ribs with two quick blows. Bones cracked like dry twigs. Eddie lapsed into semi-consciousness.

Cruz kneeled next to him, flipping him onto his back. "Hey, Hooks, you okay?" He patted Hooks' cheeks.

Hooks' eyes rolled a moment, then slowly focused. "Son of a bitch," he gasped.

Cruz grinned. "I knew you was all right. Guy in your shape. So let's continue, okay?" A look of terror tore at Eddie's face as Cruz turned to the recruits again. "Now, when you actually, have to use your hands, remember that there are many parts of the hands available. The knuckles…" He made a fist and jabbed it into Eddie's nose. Thick, gooey blood squirted out both nostrils. The nose remained flattened against Eddie's face, broken.

"Owww! Oh God, help me!" Eddie cried out to the others. "Help me, you guys!"

The recruits looked at each other but no one made a move. They didn't know what to do. They'd all heard about tough sergeants before, especially Sergeant Cruz. But that was part of the game, wasn't it? Surely the sergeant would stop soon, having taught the black kid a lesson.

Cruz continued. "Then there's the palm of the hand…" He drove his palm into Eddie's mouth, just enough to loosen all the front teeth so they'd all have to come out within the week. "And fingers…" He V-ed his two fingers and jabbed them into Eddie's sinus cavities. Mucus mixed with blood streamed out of Eddie's nose. His eyes swam in lakes of tears.

"Please, Sarge," he begged, crying. "Please God, Sarge."

Cruz ignored him. "And, of course, the flat edge of your hand…" He raised his stiffened hand over Eddie's exposed throat, watched the boy's eyes widen with horror, his mouth too dry to choke out a plea, then brought it slicing through the air at a hundred miles an hour.

At the last instant, he stopped.

The edge of his hand rested on Eddie's protruding Adam's apple. But no damage was done. No physical damage.

Eddie's eyes fluttered open. When he realized he was still alive, he panted hysterically, blood bubbles foaming at his nostrils. He emptied his bowels in his pants. His body shook from his sobs.

Cruz stood up, his face expressionless, as if he were watching a bug writhing on a pin.

One of the recruits finally summoned enough courage to speak. "Shouldn't we get him over to the infirmary, Sergeant Cruz?"

Cruz grinned. "Nah. Let him get used to his own shit and piss for a while. We got work to do. Everybody out on the field."

And they left him there, pants soaked with waste, blood streaming out of his nose, ribs splintered, a ringing in his ears. Anyone looking at the shattered heap squirming on the gymnasium floor would know that he'd never again dream about becoming the champion of the world.

Actually, he'd never dream of anything again. When Cruz brought the recruits back into the gym half an hour later, Eddie Hooks was unconscious. Doctors operated for two hours, removed the blood clot in his brain that had formed when one of the blood vessels had burst. He stayed on life-support systems for nine days before finally dying.

Eddie Hooks had been a popular home-town boy in Philadelphia and the local newspapers knew they had a good story here. And they pursued it every day with lurid detail. The Army, in an effort to avoid yet another accusation of racism, fed them Cruz. Eighteen years for involuntary manslaughter.

By the time Dirk Fallows had arrived, Cruz had done six of those years. A couple inmates confided to Fallows that Cruz had killed at least two other prisoners in those six years. One had been overheard making fun of Cruz's size. He was found drowned in a toilet bowl he'd just finished using, his pants still wound about his ankles. The second had winked suggestively at Cruz. He'd been found with an eight-inch nail driven through his eye and into his brain. Cruz had been questioned, but never charged.